The Breaking
by BlueSaber
Summary: [Leia vignette] Leia finds strength and hope from a familiar source of love and earns begrudging respect from someone unexpected in the process.


Hello there! Thank you for clicking, reading, and/or reviewing. All criticism, comments, etc. are welcome.

Well, it's been a while since I posted something, and I have one good excuse: **college**. I'm sure you can understand and forgive me?

As for the longer story I've promised, rest assured that I am in the process of writing that. I'd like to get farther into it before I post it though. Right now the tentative date of posting that is early October. If someone would like to help me beta it, I'd much appreciate that. If you leave me your e-mail address I'll contact you.

Anyway, before I bore anyone to death, here is my Leia vignette. Takes place during _A New Hope_, mostly off-screen, and what can I say? I was in an angsty mood so brace yourselves…

Disclaimer: The crazy Flash Gordon-loving George Lucas owns this. And your soul. What you didn't know about that? I'm so sorry…

* * *

The cell is cold, harsh and small. The bed is a mere shelf, flat, and colorless. The meals are gritty and tasteless. The four walls stare at her mercilessly throughout the day, imprisoning her literally and mentally, so that when the Stormtroopers arrive she almost screams in relief. 

But it is only for a second and she soon slips back into control, her helplessness and fury disappearing underneath her calm resolve. She will not succumb to this evil cloaked villain whose darkness repulses her at every turn. She will not give into the twisted corrupt bureaucracy. She will not tell them where the Rebel base is.

All her hope is wrapped up now, in a small astromech droid, jettisoned to some nothing planet, where an unknowing native will find him and bring him to General Kenobi—if she is lucky. If she is unlucky, then the Empire will find him, and they will all die.

_They will all die. And the blood will be on your hands._

She pushes this away again, marching after her guards, face serene and head held high. She is a princess. She is Alderaanian royalty; she is an Organa. It would dishonor her father to go to what she senses is inevitably coming with her head hanging and her spirit nearing the edge of despair.

_It would dishonor your mother as well._

This errant thought is but a whisper in the back of her already cluttered mind. It catches her fancy for a moment as she draws on the strength and courage of a mother she never knew. Her _real _mother. She cannot stop to reason it through, for if she does, it will vanish, disproved resoundingly by mere logic. So she does not cling to it, but instead, wraps the love and memories around her outer senses, and goes on marching.

They take her to another small room, which screams "torture!" to her already frazzled mind. They have pricked and prodded at her already. She is now acquainted with several chemicals, which were once outlawed, backin the days of the Old Republic. There are images in her mind that time will never fully erase.

And yet, she is still sane and whole. And she has not given in.

They sit her down on the bunk in this interrogation chamber and begin to shout at her. It is easy to ignore these lowly officers; they are nothing compared to the mighty rush of hot wind that the Senate was. No, these are not the men who will break her, if it is meant for her to fail. No, the breaking will come at the hands of only one—_him_.

She knows the name but does not think it, as the image comes unbidden to her mind. Tall and dark, purposeful and mighty. Strong, yet weak. Bearing down on her, his will stifling and crushing hers, the dark trying to snuff out the light.

But she will not give him that satisfaction.

Now he comes in and she pictures herself as a beautiful candle—an antiquity so rare on Alderaan, but so peaceful at the same time—burning brightly through the murky fog that surrounds her. There is a small white flame in her heart and it soothes her, giving her encouragement and hope.

They bring in the droid and she cannot help but feel horror and sit up, mouth hanging open, fear showing clearly in her eyes. Her soul screams out. The needle points at her, a metal monstrosity ready to inject strange chemicals into her very blood, to alter her mind and make her fall and fail.

He turns then and though the mask does not change, she feels his satisfaction at her fear. He glories in it and he gloats in presupposed joy. Though he has an almost grudging respect—hidden away, tucked far away, so that she does not even fully realize this emotion in him herself—surely this will be the catalyst, surely this will break her.

But his snap judgment reminds her of who she is and adds kindling to the fire of her resolve. She looks up at him with something very close to hatred and then calms herself and reaches for the light again.

The door snaps shut.

Red agony bursts through her mind and the torture begins, the pain lancing through every fiber of her being. Her soul and body scream simultaneously as she withers, grasping and twisting, trying to escape.

_Give in give in give in make the pain stop just do it Leia say it say it…_

_No. I cannot. I must not._

And she clings to the light, a pinprick now in the sea of darkness, but it will not fail her.

_It will not fail her._

And she is the light.

* * *

Later, they toss her battered body back into the cell. She is half-conscious, sputtering, mind wild and roving, her eyes bloodshot from the drugs and beatings. 

But she has not said anything incriminating. She has passed the test.

She senses the dark form nearby, watching and waiting, sizing up his prey.

Surely he will descend now and consume her, for he must surely know that she will not break for anything. If this could not do it, what could?

And there it is again, the feeling of almost respect. Wonder, awe, half-formed in the alien mind of his, barely acknowledged. And then something close to a bow manifests itself in her mind, reminding her of a warrior conceding to the other, if only for a brief moment.

And cape sweeping outward, he leaves her to the small, cold, cell, to ponder andweep and recover. And always, to prepare for the next round in this deadly game of galactic fate.

_They will all die. And the blood will be on your hands._

And she dreads what is to come next. For the light whispers to her that it will be the hardest of all. The darkness laughs and red tendrils reach for her soul.

And she nears that abyss of cold, cold darkness, teetering on the edge of madness and the final plunge of death.

_Be strong my love._

_Mother_, her soul cries out and for one second, the memory of warmth and love wraps around her heart and lifts her up out of the darkness.

And never will she break.

* * *


End file.
